


Please?

by Newtavore



Series: red kurcro cause it's a thing that needs to happen [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Desperation, First Time, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Gillplay, Loss of Virginity, M/M, No Seriously There's No Plot, Out of Character, PWP, Pitiful Cronus, Sex, Soooo Out of Character, Touch-Starved, it's not even funny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1373221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Kurloz Makara, and you are one confused motherfucker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please?

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [KurCro NSFW Comic](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/42082) by MadCarnival. 



> this is extremely shameless self indulgent shit okay i am perfectly aware that they are not even the slightest bit in character but really you should blame Madcarnival and their beautiful, beautiful art because that's what got this pounded out in an hour on thirty minutes of sleep in three days. also I'm pretty sure that's not how chucklevoodoos work but hoho heehee haha i can't be fucked to care right now because I'm gOING TO SLEEP GOODNIGHT

Your name is Kurloz Makara, and you are one confused motherfucker.

 

It is currently mid-day, and your little dream bubble is right in the middle of one of the worst storms you've ever seen; bass-drop thunder, strobe lightning, literal sheets of rain, the works… Which is _why_ you are confused as fuck. Because someone is currently pounding, pounding on your hive stem door, which no one does, not anymore. 

 

What kind of idiot would be out in this kind of weather? You know Mituna is with Latula, and she'd never let him run out here, and Meulin hates the rain so much you know she won't be coming out of her home until the puddles are dry, so who? Who would want to see you so much as to risk both the rain and the sun? Who would want to see you in the first place?

 

There's another, weaker knock on the door, and you roll your eyes, hoisting yourself off the couch. Well, it wasn't like you were sleeping. You might as well go see who's crazy enough to run around in this. 

 

You throw open the door, and suddenly, something wet and cold is plastered to you, against your lips, your chest, and you're startled. You blindly reach up and catch a horn in your hand, yanking back whomever had decided that kissing you was a good idea. 

 

  
_Cronus_. 

 

Cronus is trembling on your doorstep, rain plastering his hair to his skull, with violet tears dripping down his face in such volume that the only way you could distinguish them from the water pouring from the heavens was the color. You feel a strong, almost painful flash of pity- how could you not? He looks terrified and desperately, hopelessly sad at the same time, and he opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out for almost a minute. 

 

"Please," he finally says, throwing himself at you again, and this time you let him cling to you, let him press his body against yours, let him kiss you again, "Please, Kurloz- just… just this once, and I swear, I'll- I'll leave, I'll never bother anyone ever again just… just once,  _please_ …"

 

You wrap your arms around him, and he jumps, shaking, like he expects you to push him away, to hurt him, and maybe he does. You haven't been kind to him, no one has, and he has no reason to expect anything but pain from your hands. You sigh, and pull him closer. 

 

You're not sure how it ended like this. You'd been friends with him, at the very least, flushcrushed at best, but then the game had happened and… there was so much stress, on all your parts, and teasing him had released that. Good-natured teasing, at first, and it was funny, everyone thought so, but… the longer it went on, the more desperate Cronus became, the more he changed, the more he tried to fit in, be better, and the more everyone's tone shifted from teasing to cruel. What started out all in good fun had ended bitter, harsh, demoralizing, and you don't really remember  _when_  it had transitioned to such. When it had become so bad.

 

He's clinging to you desperately, and you tilt his head up to press your stitches to his lips. In contrast with his ice cold body, his face is febrile, sticky with his tears and warm to the touch, and he looks so shocked that you haven't kicked him out, so shocked you haven't pushed him away that you're zapped with another burst of pity for him. He warily leans into the point of contact, the closest thing to a kiss you can manage, with your mouth sewn shut, and whimpers when you bury your gloved hands in his wet hair. There isn't a trace of gel in it, as far as you can see- either it got washed out by the rain, or he didn't even bother to use it in the first place. 

 

A loud clap of thunder has him jumping, and you drag him inside, slamming the door behind you. He's making a puddle on the floor, completely soaked through, and you can see his gills fluttering, struggling against the weight of his dripping shirt in a way that can't be comfortable. You motion him to remove it, and he does so, prying it off and standing there in your living room, shivering and small. 

 

You step forward, and he leans back, like he was going to step away but thought better of it. You crowd him anyways, until he stumbles backwards, through the open door into your room and onto the small concupiscent platform you have there, shoved into a corner. 

 

You place a hand on his chest, pushing him down, and he obeys easily, following your unspoken orders with no complaint. You can feel the chill of him even through your gloves, and your lips tug down in a frown. He's not supposed to be this cold, you remember that well enough. You peel your gloves off and touch him again, rubbing your hands over his collarbones, across his chest, and he shivers under them, earfins flicking, twitching like he can't decide whether to arch into the contact or flinch away. 

 

_When had it gotten this bad?_

 

When had you and the others decided to alienate him so badly? You remember when he was just a little wriggler, when he and you were  _friends_ , when he was a lonely, magic-obsessed little grub who just wanted someone to pay attention to him. How had it all gone so  _wrong_? 

 

You duck your head and 'kiss' him again, and he sighs, hands hovering over your shoulders like he wants to touch, but he's too afraid to. Like he's afraid that if you remember it's him, or if he reminds you he's still here, you'll leave. Or throw him out. 

 

You pull away. 

 

  
_'Cronus,'_  you sign, on the off chance he can read you, understand you, _'Cronus, do not be afraid.'_  


The sudden flinch and cringe caused by your hands moving near his face doesn't surprise you as much as it should, you think. What does, is the look of dawning comprehension, the way his eyes watch your hands, the way he reads you. And then, the way he inches closer, and, cautiously, fretfully, sets his hands down on your shoulders, the lightest contact you've ever felt. 

 

You kiss him again, and he jerks, pulling you tight against him, until you're chest to chest and you can feel the panicked hammering of his heartbeat. You run your hands down his sides and settle them on his hips, and he shudders. 

 

Only one article of clothing has come off, but he's already the most responsive partner you've ever been with. Every brush of your fingers elicits a gasp, a shiver,  _something_ , and he reacts to you like you're a god given gift. He's slow to reciprocate, always waiting for you to take the lead, to show him what to do, and for a bit you think it's because he's still afraid you'll make him leave if he oversteps his bounds. 

 

Not so. It comes to you as you nuzzle the small, frilly gills on the side of his neck, prompting him to let out a moan and bury his hands in your hair, holding you still. He's never done this before. It makes all the teasing, all the cruelty seem so much worse, somehow. Like you were taunting him even more, making fun of him for not having this, not having anyone to care enough about him to help him with something so simple. He's not acting unsure because he's scared, he is unsure because he's never done this before. 

 

Suddenly, you're overwhelmed with an odd mixture of both pity and lust. No one else has ever had him before, until you. You are his _first_ , you are his only, and the thought makes  _you_  shudder. 

 

You wedge a leg between his thighs and revel in the shocked, breathy whimper he lets out in response, pressing your lips to his again. You wish you could kiss him, really kiss him, but this is the best you can do, the best you can give him. He seems to enjoy it well enough, if his quiet trilling was any indication. Of course, that might be because of you rubbing up against him, but either way, he's enjoying himself. 

 

He gasps against your mouth as you grind your thigh up against his crotch, clinging to you like he'll die if he doesn't have something to hold onto. He flicks his tongue against your stitches and you pull away, startled. No one's ever done that before. You think most of your partners like to ignore them, avoid them, try not to think about them, so someone actively touching them is a bit of a shock. 

 

He looks terrified, though, and you work quickly to reassure him he's done nothing wrong, framing his face in your hands and crushing your lips together, rubbing your thumbs over his prominent cheekbones. He chirrs and licks at your stitches again, wrapping his arms around your neck and holding you close. 

 

He's so desperate for contact, so desperate for your touch it's almost heartbreaking. He whimpers every time you pull away, but you have to, both to let him catch his breath and to nose along the little frills on his neck, prompting more beautiful little noises. You run your hands over his chest, down his sides,  and he arches into your touch, eyes half-shut, mouth open. He's already touch-drunk, and you've been playing with him for less than ten minutes. 

 

You don't think this is going to last very long, but it doesn't need to. This isn't for you. It's for him. You don't know why he finally snapped, why he stumbled to your hive midday, through a storm, to find you, to ask for this, but he needs it and you are going to give it. 

 

…Because you care about him. It's not as shocking a revelation you thought it would be, because it's the truth; you really do care about him, pity him with all your heart, how could you not? How could you not, with him trembling underneath you, hands clenched in your shirt and eyes glued to your face like he's afraid you're going to disappear? How could you not, when you cringe at the thought of all the sweeps and sweeps he's been alone, starved for affection, taunted and teased and tormented by everyone around him, including, you are shamed to admit, you?

 

How could you  _not_?

 

His shaking hands tug at your clothing, and he whines, a soft, begging sound. You pull away, far enough to get your own shirt off, and stare down at him. 

 

He's sprawled under you, hands up by his head, flushed and panting. He looks worried, still, even though you thought you'd made it perfectly obvious you weren't going to kick him out. You tap his face, to get his attention, and sign. 

 

_'Do not be afraid.'_

You sit back and shuck off your pants, making quick work of his as well, and then he's bare, naked and shivering under your gaze and he's beautiful. His gills quiver with every breath, flushed violet against the pale grey of his skin, and the delicate, vestigial fins along his shoulders and hips twitch and flutter in time with his earfins the longer you spend just… looking at him. He bites his lip, fidgets, tries to curl in on himself but you don't let him, you pin his hands to the bed and lean over him, nuzzling the side of his face and dropping down over his body, covering him completely with your own form. 

 

Your bulges tangle together and he muffles a cry, a small trickle of violet leaking from his mouth. You let go of one arm to tap his cheek, shaking your head. Don't silence yourself, you want to say, let me hear you, but you can't sign with only one hand. You pry his razor sharp teeth from his lip with a sigh, and buck your hips the slightest bit. He chokes on a gasp and shivers, his free arm wrapping around your neck, and he's panting in your ear, making the most delicious strangled moans you've ever heard. 

 

He's a delight to watch, to listen to, and you'd stay like this all night and day if you thought you could get away with it. He's impatient  though, already making little pleas for you, begging shamelessly. You don't want to put all your weight on his arm- you have a feeling it might snap, if you did, with how thin it feels in your grasp- so you release him, planting a hand on the bed beside his head to keep yourself upright and snaking the other between his legs, running your fingers across his bulge and down to his nook. 

 

The noise he makes when you touch him there is indescribable, and it makes you shiver all over. He bucks into your hands, scrabbling at you shoulders with stiff fingers, and babbles incoherently, pleading, begging, urging you do so something, anything,  _please_. 

 

You, of course, oblige him, sliding a finger into his nook. He keens, and you add another, and another, slowly, giving him time to adjust and stretch between each addition, and he goes pliant, melting under your touch and becoming a shuddering, panting puddle of seatroll on your bed. 

 

He wordlessly begs for you, soft trills and chirrs falling from his mouth as he stares up at you with unashamed, heavy lidded eyes. You cock your head, questioning. He nods, and you push into him, slowly, inch by inch until you're seated fully inside his dripping nook, using up most of your control and restraint to keep your bulge from immediately thrashing. 

 

"K- _kurloz_ ," he whimpers, and bucks his hips against yours, moving as much as he can with most of his body pinned down by your weight, "Kurloz,  _please_ -"

 

You move inside of him and he goes quiet, nothing but his harsh, panting breaths filling the silence between you. It's like he can't force the sound out of his throat, like he's so overwhelmed he can't even remember how to speak, and all he's left with are the primitive, animalistic vocalizations left to your species from times past. He rocks with you, choking out a weak trill, and you slowly let go of more and more of your self control. 

 

One of his hands falls to the bed, clawing at the pillow under his head for purchase, and the other buries itself in your hair, pulling you closer. He trills against your lips and closes his eyes, gasping when you respond with a rumble of your own, your chest vibrating with the force of your purr. 

 

You kiss him, cradling his cheek in one hand, but you pull away when you feel something wet against your fingers. He's crying, eyes squeezed shut, little amethyst tears tracing paths down his face, and it startles you. You've never had a partner cry before, not in the middle of pailing, not like this, and for a moment you're worried you've been too rough with him, that you've hurt him.  You still your hips, but he gasps out your name in the most pitiful tone you've ever heard, eyes flying open, pleading for you in broken, unfinished sentences to please keep going, please don't stop,  _please_ -

 

You brush your fingers over his cheeks, wiping away the pearlescent tears, and spread out your awareness, lightly touching his consciousness. 

 

  
_"Don't cry,"_ you say, careful to keep your volume low, pouring your voice directly into his mind,  _"Don't fucking cry anymore, little fish, please."_  


 

You kiss him again and he arches into you, hands shaking as they move from your hair to your horns, scratching the sensitive new growth lightly. You make the most noise you can and buck into him, and he cries out, gripping you tightly in an effort to ground himself. 

 

It takes too much focus to keep from hurting him, to keep from being too loud, so you break off your connection to him and run your free hand along his side, tracing the violet, fluttering gills. Every touch sets new whimpers and chirrs falling from his lips, and you thrust harder as he clenches around you, ever so responsive to your handling. 

 

You wish you had enough control to talk to him like this, to speak into his mind and tell him how utterly, sickeningly pitiful he is like this, touch starved and wanton, but you can't so you make the most of what you have, rubbing your cheek along his and nuzzling the gills along his neck. He clings to you, body twitching against you, and you can tell he's close. He's making a strange noise, rhythmic, almost musical, something that throbs deep in his chest in a way you've never heard before, something that changes pitch and octave as you run you hand down his side to wrap around his bulge. You want to know if he can come without you touching him like this, you want to find out what sets him off, you want to rip him apart and find out what makes him tick, you want to  _wreck_  him, but you're feeling merciful, and he's already so strung out and desperate you might actually drive him mad if you hold this off any longer. 

 

So you touch him, and thrash inside of him at a faster pace than before, and it takes almost a minute but he comes. He stiffens in your arms and throws his head back, his horns tangling in the warming tarps of your concupiscent platform. The deep, throbbing noise rockets up, and he's babbling in lyrical, lilting patterns that are almost words but not, sporadically bursting out into loud trilling as you continue to move inside of him. He spills violet, gripping your horns almost too tight for comfort, and his pleasure, the look on his face and the way he gasps out your name, send you tumbling over the edge after him. 

 

He chitters as you fill him up, and you collapse on top of him, holding his jittery, trembling frame in your arms as you both come down from your highs. He whimpers when your bulge retracts, but you sooth him with a kiss, rubbing a thumb over his cheek.

 

"Kurloz," he sighs, and his voice is wrecked, raspy, and you grin as you take in the feel of him, the sight and smell and sound of him so ruined beneath you, covered in both of your materials and spasming with aftershocks. His face is flushed, jaw slack, eyes half mast, and he look so debauched, spent, dazed that you can't help but rub your face against his again, purring. He trills back, the sound weak but content, and shivers as you pet him, bringing him back to himself. 

 

 "Thank you," he says, finally, after the both of you had settled and caught your breath, "Thank you so much…" 

 

You shake your head and place a finger over his lips, silencing him. He has no need to thank you, no reason to, not after the role you played in bringing him to this point. You lever yourself out of the bed and clean the both of you up, Cronus leaning into your touches like it's the last he'll ever get. 

 

He's expecting you to throw him out now, you realize, expecting you to make good on his promise to leave and never come back. Your heart burns with the reddest of pity at the thought, at how utterly, hopelessly stupid he is, not to have noticed.

 

He tries to get up, but his legs give out and he tumbles back into your bed, shaking. 

 

"I'm- I'm sorry, I'll be gone, just- just give me a few minutes-"

 

You shake your head again, rolling your eyes. Stupid. You push him back down when he tries to sit up again, and again, and again and now he's confused beyond all reason, staring at you like he's afraid you're going to bite him, small tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. 

 

"Are you- are you teasing me? Is that what this is?" he says, voice frantic, and you wince. Of course he'd think you were taunting him, being cruel. You were just playing, but how is he supposed to know that? 

 

You lean forward and press your stitches to his lips, keeping the contact up even as he tries to back away, until he responds, going lax in your arms and letting you hold him, touch him. 

 

You pull away and form your fingers into the shape of a heart, touching it first to your chest, then to his. 

 

  
_'Red,'_ you sign, and he looks at you, awe coloring his expression, like he can't believe anyone would ever say such a thing to him, and it makes you want to lock him up and throw away the key, somewhere far, far away from here and the ones who hurt him like this. 

 

"…Red?"

 

You repeat the sign, and he throws himself at you, trembling like he's about to fall apart, and maybe he is, you don't know. All you know is that he is yours, all yours and no one else's and that you are never letting your little fish out of your arms and your sight again. 

 


End file.
